Stiles's Secrets
by pippin143
Summary: Stiles tries his best to be honest with his friends, but when he fears something will hurt or damage the ones he cares about, he always chooses to bear the burden alone. Always. (Novelization of some famous Stiles's angst scenes).
1. Gerard

**So I'd been wanting to write the first scene for a long time, and this week's ep (s5e5) inspired me to do so. Enjoy a Stiles-angst novelization!**

* * *

"Ow ow ow!" Stiles complained as he was roughly maneuvered through the Argent's mansion. One of the men opened a door and Stiles was shoved down a set of stairs.

"OW!" He yelled angrily as he crashed at the bottom, his knees and elbows throbbing from the fall. His agitated complaints were met with the slamming of the door, drowning him in the basement's darkness.

Nervously, he pushed himself up and quickly adjusted himself. He couldn't see anything in the blackness but he could hear he wasn't alone. He backed away from the sound and into the wall, running his hand along searching for a light switch.

His heart skipped a beat when his fingers ran over the familiar mechanism and he hastily flicked the lever up.

The sudden illumination revealed a distressed Erica and Boyd strung up and gagged in the middle of the room.

"Oh my gosh…" he mumbles with a shocked recoil. "How did you guys get here?"

Erica's tear stained eyes narrowed angrily and she kicked a few times, evidently wanting down, while Boyd tried speaking only to come out as upset mumbles through the duct-tape gag.

"Okay, okay," Stiles replies as if he understood what the captive werewolves were saying, "I'm going to get you guys down." He looked anxiously back at the staircase and door, wondering how much time he had before the hunters returned. "Then maybe you guys can use your werewolf skills to get us out of here."

"Nmm, mhmh mmm mhmmmh!" Erica stated, shaking her head her head as Stiles reached up to unite the wire bonds.

"Yeah, okay," He replied with a tight smile, this might take a second. "Please don't kill me after you're free."

A series of snapping pops ran through the air as his fingers met the wires, sending a jolt of pain through the tips all the way up his arm.

"Ow, dammit!" He gasped, pulling his arm away and shaking it vigorously. The bindings had shocked him. Erica and Boyd wined again, clearly still feeling the pain.

"They were trying to warn you," a gravelly voice grumbled from behind, "it's electrified."

Stiles whirled around, eyes wide and heart racing upon being caught. He clenched his jaw in anger when he saw the voice's source.

Gerard Argent.

He should've figured the bloodthirsty grandpa would show up sooner or later, considering who his abductors were and where he'd wound up.

"What are you doing with them?" Stiles demanded, struggling to keep his voice from quavering. Erica and Boyd hadn't been the nicest of friends, hell, they hadn't been nice or friends at all, but he was not going to just let Gerard and the other hunters kidnap and torture them like this.

His heart pounded faster as the veteran hunter continued his descent down the stairs, eyes tracking every twitch Stiles made.

"At the moment just keeping them comfortable," Gerard said tiredly, a cruel smirk playing on his face. He leaned against the railing for support. "There's no point in torturing them. They won't give Derrick up, the instinct to protect their alpha is too strong."

"Okay." Stiles clenched his jaw harder, heart racing and brain-gears turning as the all too familiar panic began to set in. "So what are you doing with me? Because Scott can find me, alight? He knows my scent. It's pungent, you know, more like a stench. He can find me even if I'm in the bottom of a sewer, buried in fecal matter, and urine…"

"You have a knack for imagination, Mr. Stilinski." Gerard mused, shaking his head and interrupting the boy's nervous rambling. He pushed himself from the rail and stepped down the remaining stairs, heading straight for the frightened Stiles. "Let me paint one of my own. Scott McCall finds his best friend bloodied and beaten to a pulp. How does that sound, now?" He leers over Stiles, mere inches from his face, bearing his decaying, human teeth.

"I think I might prefer more of a still life, or landscape, you know?" Stiles stammered, swallowing uneasily. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for a way out. There was none but the stairs he'd been kindly thrown down. "What are you like ninety?" He blurted suddenly, finding the conviction to fight his way out.

Gerard was a tough bastard, but he lumbered around, wheezed when he breathed, and had breath that even Stiles's human nose could detect was sickly. He could fight his way out, he could get help, he could—"I could probably kick your ass up and down this room!"

Gerard's bare knuckled fist slammed into his jaw, sending Stiles flying to the ground. The old man was on top of him before he could even process what happened, grabbing him by the collar of his grass stained jersey and forcing his face back towards his fist.

"Wait, okay," Stiles pleaded, cringing, trying to shield the blow, "wait, just—!"

The fist connected again, sending black dots swimming across his vision and his brain pounded against the back of his skull. Erica and Boyd's muffled cries reached his ringing ears. They went silent, however, after another chain of electrical snaps.

"Wait," Stiles breathed restlessly, the left side of his face throbbing to the bone and tasting blood from fiery split in his bottom lip. "Wait, okay, just—!"

The fist connected again, crushing his cheek bone and leaving a wet sting. Stiles yelped and tears of pain sprang in his eyes. He tried to squirm away, but Gerard's weight and position overpowered his lanky, teen body.

Wincing and blinking the tears away, he saw a red stain on Gerard's knuckles right before they slammed into his face again.

And again.

And again.

Stiles grunted in pain with each blow, his vision going dizzy and blood roaring in his ears. He grabbed at Gerard, trying to push the heavy man away, trying to kick his way out, only to feel himself lifted from the ground and slammed back down.

The back of his head bounced painfully off the basement's cement floor, leaving a sharp, smarting wound and his brain feeling like jelly.

He gasped and let go of Gerard's arms, reflexively bringing his own towards his wounded head. Gerard pulled away, sneering above as Stiles looked at his hands and saw them stained with blood. His blood.

Then Gerard's foot met Stile's stomach.

Stiles balked, gasping as the air left his lungs and his insides exploded, threatening to come up his throat. Gathering his bearings, he feebly tried to scoot away, only for the hard shoe to connect with his gut again.

A small cry escaped with the coughs this time and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Gerard dropped back down, battering his face. He smiled with satisfaction when Stiles cringed fetally.

"That mouth of yours is really going to get you in trouble someday, Mr. Stilinski." He growled, ruffling Stiles's short, sweaty hair. Gerard stood up and wiped the blood smears from his hands. "A human who throws his lot in with the wolves is just another dog."

"You should really find a new pack to tag along with," the old man continued, stiffly walking back to the stairs. "But do us all a favor and don't take this personally. Our little chat wasn't even meant for you. Just a message for your friends. Now, please be a good boy and deliver it for me."

Stiles wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, sniffing painfully through his throbbing nose. A fresh blood stain was on the under armor sleeve when he pulled it away. Groaning, he tried pushed himself up only to find a pair of rough arms loop under his and haul him to his feet.

He felt himself being dragged up the stairs, the hard wood ramming against his leaden knees and further jostling his reeling head. His groggy gaze drifted back toward his two friends, still strung up by the electrical cords, their eyes wide in fear and despair as their only source of hope vanished.

Their prison went dark once again.

The brutes tossed his tired, battered body onto the front lawn, laughing at his pathetic state as they headed back into the house.

"You owe me twenty," one said to the other, "You said he'd last more than five minutes, I said less."

"Kid hangs with werewolves, thought he'd be able to handle more." The other grumbled, pulling out his wallet. Their voices disappeared as the mansion's front door slammed shut, drowning Stiles once again in the night's darkness.

Tears of shame filled Stiles's eyes as he finally pushed his sore body up from the grass. Scott, Derrick, and Allison, hell even Jackson, were all so strong and could take so much. He was rendered useless in a matter of minutes and considered no more a threat to the enemy than a pet dog.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and walked towards the street, his steps heavy and chest and head still dull with pain. He was weak. He was pathetic. He was a useless pawn the enemy was trying to use to manipulate his friends.

He sniffed, shivering in the cold night air. He needed to tell his friends, warn them about Gerard and get help for Erica and Boyd. He felt for his phone then sighed when he realized it was in his bag. Which, if hadn't been stolen, was still at the lacrosse field, a little over a mile away.

Wincing as his face stung again, he touched the searing wound. He pulled his shaking fingers back and saw they were spotted with new blood.

 _Bloodied and beaten to a pulp_. _Send them a message_.

That was exactly what Gerard wanted, for Stiles to run for help, for them to know how powerful Gerard was, for them to know how helpless they were, for them to give up and stay out of Gerard's way.

He couldn't let Gerard win.

So Stiles wouldn't tell anyone what really happened that night.

Ever.

Not even Scott.

Especially not Scott.

It was the least a weak little human like him could do.


	2. Donovan

"You dropped your phone."

The events prior to the taunt were still racing through Stiles's mind, too fast for him to fully process, and nowhere near as fast as his pounding heart.

He remembered how he'd been working on his jeep, how the attacker grabbed him on the shoulder with a teething hand, how he then tried pressing that same hand to Stiles's face. He only got away by slugging the hungry freak with a nearby wrench. Having the tools out was the only plus of his car trouble that night.

He had whacked the creature, sending him to the ground and—

Donavan? The deviant, psychopath delinquent?

The angry boy responded to the blow by baring a sharp set of teeth in his bloodstained mouth as his eyes simultaneously flicked to a soulless white.

No. Donavan, the man hungry wendigo, who had several good reasons to kill Stiles.

So Stiles ran. And now he was trapped with said wendigo in the school's dark library.

Stiles clenched the wrench in his hand, the warm, sweaty metal shaking in his vicelike grip. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his nerves and figure a way out. It wasn't the first time a psychopath was trying to kill him.

"It's Malia," Donovan continued, his voice unsettling casual though with a newly developed lisp, "should I text her back?"

Stiles clenched his jaw and held his breath, doing his best to keep from biting back a snarky, rage induced remark. He was scared as hell and right now his only hope was staying hidden. And Donovan knew it. He had no way of getting help. No one knew he was here and no one expected him to be in any danger. The only real protection he had was staying quiet behind the shadowy bookcases and keeping a hold of that wrench.

But where had Donovan come from and how long had he been a wendigo? He had all but vanished after the kanima incident and Scott would've picked up his supernatural scent that time he tracked him down.

Stile's heart iced over as the pieces clicked together, the horrific answer unfolding in his mind just as elegantly as it did on his crime board. But this time the answer was not the one he was hoping for.

The Dread Doctors had turned the failed deputy into a part wendigo chimera.

"You don't really know who I am, do you Stiles?" Donovan taunted, beginning to walk around the room.

Stiles peaked through the books, holding onto the shelf to steady himself. Donovan headed his way for a bit, but then drifted towards the other side. The newly mutated chimera seemed in no hurry. Stiles winced and rubbed his raw wound, fearful of what the monster planned to try next.

"Maybe you, uh, heard about my father?" Donovan continued, a loathsome note entering his even voice. "Did your dad ever tell you about him? Did Sherriff Stilinski ever tell you about the time he was still deputy, and his partner got caught in a shootout?" His voice rose, anger fueling the little monologue he evidently had prepared. "Did he ever tell you a bullet shattered my dad's T9 vertebrae?"

Stiles bit the inside of his lip and looked down. So this was what it all boiled down too. Donovan blamed Stiles's dad for ruining both his and his father's future. And now, with his new powers, he planned on ruining the Stilinski's. He flared his nostrils angrily and took a slow breath. If it'd been difficult not to say anything when Donovan mentioned his girlfriend, it was nearly impossible for him not to yell out in his father's defense. But this was a matter of life or death. He had to keep quiet.

"Went right through his spinal cord," Donovan yelled bitterly. "Do you know what that means? It means everything below his waist is useless. And not just his legs." He paused and Stiles stole another glimpse, catching the vengeful criminal searching the aisles on the other side.

"Bet he told you some of it," Donovan growled, turning back towards Stiles's side. "But I bet he left out the part where he was _sitting in the car calling for back up_ while my dad was going in alone. Did he tell you he was too _scared_ , too much of a _little bitch,_ to go in after him? Or do scared little bitches not tell their _little bitch sons_ about their failures? About how they put their partner in a wheelchair for the rest of his life?"

Stiles's body was shaking from more than fear. It was all he could do to keep from rattling the books. He lowered the quivering wrench, noticing it was threatening to clink against the shelves' aluminum plating. He took a deep, shuddery breath, eyes and thoughts growing dark. The only person who meant more to him in the world than his friends was his dad. And Donovan had his hungry heart set on ultimately destroying him.

With a panicked gasp, Stiles realized that he'd been holding his breath and the library was now eerily silent. Suddenly the metal stairs that led to the library's loft creaked and Stiles spotted a pair of legs climbing up them.

His heart skipped a beat. He moved away from the book shelf, ears straining for Donovan's movements and eyes searching for the best escape route. He edged down the aisle slowly, wrench ready in his hand.

But then the footsteps above stopped.

Stiles paused, breath heavy and panicking. He tried to regain his self-control, his composure, and began mentally preparing himself to launch in a sprint towards exit doors.

An arm burst through the book shelf behind him and wrapped around his neck.

Stiles jumped, air leaving his lungs in a strangled scream as the arm choked and bit into his flesh. Bucking in pain, he tried to pull away, tried to bring the wrench up to whack the wendigo once again.

But his feet were no longer on the ground. With superhuman strength, Donovan yanked Stiles through the particle board, slamming him painfully against the tiles. The wrench flew from his hands, clattering out of reach, as the air rushed from his lungs. Books and splintered wood rained down as the wendigo wrestled to pin Stiles to the ground.

Grunting and reeling in pain, Stiles kicked and pulled himself from under Donavan, scrambling across the books in a desperate attempt to get away. The wendigo growled angrily, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and wrenched him back once again. They collided, skulls knocking, and Stiles clawed at the arms attempting to eat him alive, struggling to stay on his feet.

With a frenzied yell, Donovan slammed Stiles against some metal scaffolding, ramming his neck into the metal pipes. Stiles choked against the bar, feeling his eyes roll back, but when the wendigo made to slam him again he managed to get his hand in between. With a crazed backswing, he slugged Donovan in the side of the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Stiles stumbled backwards into the scaffolding, surprised the punch had worked, then quickly turned his attention to scrambling up them to the loft. Donovan pushed himself up from the ground and gave a guttural scream, the kind a lion makes when the tamer whips it one too many times, making Stiles's skin crawl.

Climbing as fast as humanly possible, Stiles begged whatever supernatural forces were at work to let him climb get away in time. That's when Donovan's demonic hand grasped his leg.

He yelled in pain as the all too familiar teeth sank into his skin, easily piercing through his jeans like a needle and slicing his flesh. He lost his footing as Donovan tried yanking him down.

"Don't worry Stiles," Donovan growled, baring his new set of teeth. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm just going to eat your legs!"

Stiles kicked ferociously and he watched in horror as Donovan dark brown eyes turned into the ghastly wendigo white. He cried out as the teeth sank deeper into his leg, and with all the strength he could muster he pulled upward, trying to rip himself from the monster's grasp.

He made it up another rung, pulling the wendigo with him, and just as he was about to reach for another he noticed a safety latch just to the left. He strained for the latch, yelping as Donovan cruelly yanked on his leg. His fingers slid against the ring, and with a final, desperate stretch he grasped the latch ripped it from the scaffold.

Metal beams and scraps showered around the boys, and Stiles cowered against the rail as the debris painfully glanced off his body. Trembling, he looked up as the crashing ended, white knuckles fused to the metal bars. His leg throbbed with fiery, raw pain from where the teeth had eaten at him, but he no longer felt their owner's weight dragging him down.

Heart skipping a beat, he looked down to see Donovan slumped backwards with a metal pole impaled in his chest.

Stiles's mouth went dry. A pool of blood formed on the tarps below, oozing from the hole in the boy's chest and down the pole. Donovan's eyes were back to normal, half open as they tried to make sense of the foreign object running him through. He heaved, gurgling slightly, and a cruddy fountain of black blood spewed from his mouth, splattering with a sickly plop.

Eyes wide with a new kind a fear, Stiles hesitantly descended the scaffolding and stepped toward the wheezing boy. Donovan breathed heavily, dark eyes following his every movement.

Stiles approached him cautiously, mouth gaping and knees weak. How—why? This was not what he meant to happen. He was the victim. He was just trying to get away, he was just trying to survive. And now, with a cruel twist of fate, he was the newest member of the Becon High murder club. He couldn't let this happen.

He slowly reached for the pole, wrapping his shaking fingers around the red slick metal. His eyes were firmly locked on Donovan's. The wendigo groaned as the pole shifted in his chest, and for a moment Stiles was unsure of whether he intended to draw it out or shove it in farther.

Blinking rapidly to keep the tears away and his eyes focused, he fought the familiar sensation of a panic attack. No, he commanded, not now, not here. He averted his eyes back to Donovan's, whose face was contorted into a blend of pain and hate, and he realized that even in his last moments the criminal wanted him dead.

Recoiling from the bloody body when he gave another guttural growl, Stiles watched with a dark, confused expression as the life left the monster's eyes and he exhaled his remaining breath. It was a strange feeling, like watching a man hang and knowing you could cut the rope.

A grotesque hissing noise rushed from the wound, and the strange silvery metal they found on the other victims poured from the hole, spreading across the blood stained clothes.

Stiles's pulse spiked and breath grew shallow. What had he done? Tears misted his eyes as he continued staring at the still body, praying for it to move. He breathed faster, trying to give his lungs relief but the air just wouldn't go in. His bloodstained fingers went numb, shaking uncontrollably, and he felt his chest tighten as the world around him began to spin.

 _WHAT HAD HE DONE?_

Donovan was dead. Donovan was dead and it was his fault.

How would he ever tell his friends? Stiles lamented, rubbing his grief stricken face.

How would he tell Scott?

The numbness spread into his chest and he finally managed to get a breath, steadying his body and mind.

He wouldn't. That's how.


End file.
